


all lies and jests

by Kyele



Series: a fighter by his trade [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blackmail, Blowjobs, Dehumanization, Feminization, Figging, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Kneeling, M/M, Orgasm Denial, POV Rochefort, Pain, Psychological Torture, Racism, References to snuff, Sexual Slavery, Verbal Humiliation, bad bdsm, one ticket for the nine o'clock handbasket express please, references to whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Treville’s not here as Rochefort’s lover. He’s an object. An empty vessel. A proxy for better, greater things. For the Cardinal Rochefort had defeated and destroyed. For France. For Spain. For Anne. For everything Rochefort had been owed, and denied, and is finally claiming as his due.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>One day Rochefort will end his life. Does Treville know that? Consciously, perhaps not. The mind is so very good at denial, after all. But somewhere – in the dark dim part of the subconscious where the lines between man and beast blur – the animal underneath knows.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And yet – because this is the dichotomy of man – Treville forces himself to accept it. Overrides the instinct to struggle for his own survival. The animal would fight; the slave submits. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>(Told from Rochefort's POV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	all lies and jests

**Author's Note:**

> This one is told from Rochefort's POV. It's... disturbing. Please check the tags and read carefully.

Midnight, and the fire in Rochefort’s office is burning low. The chimneys in the Palais-Cardinal are not as well-designed as the Comte would have hoped. But what can one expect in a palace built by Richelieu? The Cardinal had probably been aiming for some form of mortification of the flesh. Rochefort had always been half-afraid of Richelieu’s seeming omnipotence, even as he’d plotted against him. But now that he’s taken Richelieu’s place – in more ways than one – he’s coming to realize how much of a fool the old man had been.

Rochefort touches the bell. A moment later, an unobtrusive servant enters and begins rebuilding the fire. The help in the Palais had probably been of no better quality then the construction, but unlike buildings, people may be transported from place to place. The house is now staffed mainly by new servants. Spanish servants.

And guarded by Rochefort’s own men. No sooner has the servant left than another man enters, catching the door on the outswing and ducking in around the servant’s bucket of ash. “My Lord,” Jussac says. “Captain Treville has returned from the Louvre, and awaits your convenience.”

“Send him in,” Rochefort says.

Jussac nods and ducks back outside to gesture. “Anything else, my Lord?” the Guardsman asks.

“No, thank you. I’m not to be disturbed,” Rochefort adds.

Jussac bows and retreats, closing the door behind him. Rochefort considers Jussac for a moment longer, ignoring the man who now hovers awkwardly just inside the room. Jussac is one of the few men Rochefort has kept on from the Cardinal’s day. The Captain of the Red Guard no doubt seems like an odd choice to many; why leave Richelieu’s man in the job instead of bringing in Rochefort’s own? Of course, no one who would think that knows the truth of the Cardinal’s death. They believe the old fool had given his heart to the service of France and died of natural causes. Only a select few know that Richelieu had been hastened out of this world through a tasteless, fast-acting poison introduced to his food. And only two know that Jussac had been the man to administer that poison.

Good policy and self-preservation alike dictate that Rochefort allow Jussac to remain in his prominent position. And yet. There begins to be something in Jussac’s air that Rochefort mislikes. It’s bound up in the man still waiting, silent and afraid, by the entrance to Richelieu’s – now Rochefort’s study.

Rochefort’s activities with Captain Treville have never sat well with Captain Jussac. Had the man been hoping to be free of such perversions with the demise of the Cardinal? Rochefort doesn’t expect Jussac to be sensitive to the differences between Richelieu’s _relationship_ with Treville and Rochefort’s _use_ of him, after all. Or perhaps Jussac had had more in common with the old Cardinal than Rochefort had realized. Perhaps Jussac been hoping for a chance to move in on Richelieu’s territory and been balked by Rochefort’s doing the same. Perhaps Richelieu had used to share.

Treville clears his throat. Rochefort raises his eyes to him, outraged in amused in equal measure, and finally acknowledges Treville’s existence with a raised eyebrow.

When Rochefort summons Treville, it is understood that the Comte is doing so for his own pleasure. Treville’s orders are quite clear: strip, kneel, await further instructions. Sometimes Rochefort will give them aloud; sometimes there are objects waiting whose purpose is clear; sometimes Rochefort simply leaves Treville there to await his convenience. Regardless, there’s no reason for Treville to hover by the door, or seem confused, or dare to remain _standing_ in Rochefort’s presence.

“Kneel,” he orders.

Treville folds to his knees without a sound, graceful from long practice. It’s beautiful to watch. He’s still in full kit – dusty boots, travel-stained cloak, nicked and dulled armor. Practical gear, not the shiny, showy versions he keeps for palace appearances. Rochefort prefers it this way. Prefers the reality. Enjoys the reminder that the man kneeling so compliantly is a soldier, a killer, a ruthless defender of the state.

The bluff, honest man is a front. The reality is a tiger. One that is kept leashed and docile at Rochefort’s will.

“Come here.”

Treville at least knows not to rise and walk. Instead he crawls. That alone had taken considerable time and effort, at the beginning of their arrangement. Treville had not wanted to learn. Had still believed that he would find some way to free himself of the Comte’s influence. Foolish, of course. No matter how much power Treville might accumulate – and as Captain of the Musketeers, favorite of the King, and a landed noble in his own right, Treville ought to have had quite a bit – it would not serve to conceal what lay underneath. Underneath Treville’s trappings does not appear a man of worthy of power. There lies a wretched being fit only to serve, for whom the title _man_ is an abomination.

It had been Treville’s ill fortune, to run into one of the few men in France who both had the eyes to see the truth, and the power to do something about it.

Treville reaches Rochefort. When no more orders are immediately forthcoming, he returns to a kneeling position at the Comte’s side, facing in the opposite direction. With Rochefort seated behind his desk, it places Treville nearly face-first into the wall at the back of Rochefort’s office. There is nothing but blank, featureless stone before his eyes and under his knees. Nowhere for Treville’s attention to wander or his mind to escape.

Sometimes Rochefort leaves him like this for hours, while the Comte works. Sometimes Treville is still there when Rochefort retires for the night. If there is no pressing business in France – and despite what the newspapers would say, there are often such lulls – Rochefort might leave Treville there night and day, awaiting Rochefort’s pleasure.

Not today. Rochefort intends to make use of his slave. There is, however, one final matter to deal with – orders to be written to Vargas. With his right hand Rochefort reaches for his pen and ink-stand. Paper waits ready to be inscribed. His left hand he buries into Treville’s hair. It’s slightly longer than is practical for a soldier, and Rochefort knows Treville hates keeping it that way, but Rochefort does not allow him to cut it. It reinforces Treville’s proper state. Women keep their hair long. And it’s a useful tool for maneuvering his slave around.

For now, Rochefort only weaves his fingers through the strands, enjoying the feeling of it, the power it affords him, the complete submission it signifies. Treville’s not here as Rochefort’s lover. He’s an object. An empty vessel. A proxy for better, greater things. For the Cardinal Rochefort had defeated and destroyed. For France. For Spain. For Anne. For everything Rochefort had been owed, and denied, and is finally claiming as his due.

After a moment Rochefort guides Treville’s head down into his lap for better access. Rochefort continues scratching away with his pen; Treville sighs, going boneless and limp, allowing himself to be manipulated. He’s come such a long way from the stubborn, puffed-up, intractable Gascon Rochefort had first set out to tame.

Rochefort finishes Vargas’ letter. He lifts his hands away from Treville long enough to sand, fold and seal it. Then he rings for it to be to taken it away and sent.

Next to him, Treville tenses again. More than anything he hates being observed in his true role. Any servant has this effect. But it’s best, Rochefort has noticed, when that servant is one of the handful Rochefort has kept on from Richelieu’s days. What does Treville think of, when Captain Jussac walks into the room in obedience to the bell, and sees the Cardinal’s old lover kneeling between Rochefort’s feet, an object to be used and discarded?

Rochefort needn’t wonder how it makes Treville feel. The humiliation and anguish roll off Treville in waves. Rochefort savors them, the taste of them on his tongue like a fine wine from the Cardinal’s cellar. Like the favor of the King. Like the secrets contained in the letter Rochefort hands to Jussac.

Jussac doesn’t give Treville a second glance. Rochefort demands well-trained obedience from all his servants, not just Treville. And he is not a man inclined to share.

“Tomorrow, at court, you will convey this to the Spanish ambassador,” Rochefort instructs. “You will do so casually. There will be no reply.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Jussac says. The letter is tucked carefully away, out of sight. He retreats at Rochefort’s look and closes the door behind him.

Rochefort leans back in his chair and considers the man kneeling between his knees. Several possibilities tick through his head; he often amuses himself, while wading through the dreary business of court attendance, by arranging different scenarios for his slave to experience. Today – yes. Yes, he thinks so.

“Strip,” Rochefort directs Treville. He rises from his seat and crosses over to the far wall, opening the door to his private chambers. From Treville’s vantage point, on his knees by Rochefort’s chair, he should be able to see Rochefort approach the small wardrobe in one corner of the room.

Rochefort has put his own mark on everything in this palace. And yet certain elements he has kept scrupulously the same. It gives him a thrill every time he gazes at a piece of art or sits at a magnificently carved table. It warms him to sleep beneath the Cardinal’s coverlets and don the man’s dressing-gown. The tribesmen of Africa believe that, by consuming someone’s heart, one consumes their essence. Takes on their power and their strength. Rochefort may not have had the opportunity to dine on the old fool’s flesh, but when he sinks deep into Treville’s body, he knows exactly what feeling had powered the tribesmen’s belief.

The small wardrobe’s trick bottom had not been hard to find. Rochefort unhooks it now and lifts it out. Contemplates the wide array spread out before him. The Cardinal had been well-stocked, but only on the tamer side of the spectrum. Richelieu had kept toys. Rochefort keeps tools. He caresses the thumbscrew and the scold’s bridle, standing ready, but passes over them for now. Later, perhaps. The evening is young.

The rustling sounds of Treville disrobing have ceased. Rochefort turns his head over his shoulder. Treville is nude, clothing neatly stacked in a corner.

“Stand,” Rochefort orders, still mild. Then he picks up a small knife and a somewhat larger root.

“You’ve never left France, have you, Treville?” he asks.

Treville rises slowly, watching him with the same gaze a sparrow employs against the cat who stalks it. “No,” he says after a moment. He’s managing to keep his voice level, but Rochefort can see his pulse beating in the hollow of his throat.

For a moment Rochefort imagines taking the knife in his hand and slicing that artery. It won’t be easy; the knife is dull, and Treville still has some strength in him. Rochefort can see every time Treville makes the conscious decision not to fight Rochefort. Rochefort comes closer, knife still in hand, and watches the familiar struggle briefly shiver Treville’s frame. Rochefort feels a shiver of his own, of pleasure, settle deep in his belly and start a fire in his loins.

“Then you’ll be unfamiliar with this practice. I learned it in Arabia, where discipline is raised to a much higher art than it is in our backwards lands.” Rochefort applies the knife to the root, shaving the grey, knobby skin away to show the pale flesh beneath.

“This is ginger,” Rochefort condescends to explain, before ordering, “Over the desk.”

Response to command is among Treville’s new skills. He takes the two steps necessary to stand in front of Rochefort’s desk, and bends over it, resting his cheek against the blotter. Rochefort follows, patting the exposed flesh proprietarily.

“At first this may even feel good,” Rochefort says, hearing his own amusement at the irony leak out into his voice. “You’re depraved enough for it, certainly. You may rest assured that won’t last.”

Rochefort sets the knife down, its task complete. Then he impales Treville on the root without further ado, and watches Treville’s reaction.

Rochefort’s seen it all before, dozens upon dozens of times, but it never gets old. The preliminary tension, as Treville hears Rochefort coming and locks himself in place, forbids himself to even struggle. The frozen, suspended moment, when Rochefort first makes contact, when the pain receptors haven’t quite yet begun to send their signals and the brain can’t yet process what’s happening. Then it hits. Then comes the pressed-closed eyes, the twisted expression, the sporadic tense and release of muscles which have no other way to bleed off the instinctive urge to act.

Treville knows that he must _not_ act. Knows that action is not his right. Knows that all he deserves, all he is permitted, is to lie there and take it. Whatever Rochefort chooses to do to him. All his choices belong to Rochefort; he is an object, the plaything of better men.

And playthings break. Today what is done to Treville is temporary. One day it will be permanent. One day Rochefort will take things from Treville that can’t be replaced. One day Rochefort will end his life. Does Treville know that? Consciously, perhaps not. The mind is so very good at denial, after all. But somewhere – in the dark dim part of the subconscious where the lines between man and beast blur – the animal underneath knows.

And yet – because this is the dichotomy of man – Treville forces himself to accept it. Overrides the instinct to struggle for his own survival. The animal would fight; the slave submits.

“Good,” Rochefort approves. Treville reddens slightly under the compliment, involuntarily pleased. Rochefort keeps him rather starved for praise, and never, so far as he can prevent it, from anyone save himself.

It’s that, more than anything else, that has Rochefort hard in an instant. The power. The control. The dominance. The beautiful, aching, broken submission before him.

The involuntary twitch and the bitten-off moan as the ginger begins to do its work is a bonus.

Rochefort smiles slowly to himself, where Treville, pressed down as he is on the desk, cannot see. The root is beginning to warm up. It’s jammed deep – Rochefort had cut it to perhaps eight inches in length, of which nearly all is inside Treville – and nearly as thick around as Rochefort’s wrist. With that much juice to draw on, it will burn for hours, if Rochefort doesn’t take it out first. Treville will be begging by then. Rochefort is very much looking forward to hearing him beg. He intends to accelerate the process. There’s a beautiful cat o’ nine tails hanging in the wardrobe. Treville will feel the burn from without as well as within. But first –

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock upon the door. Rochefort’s more surprised even than angry: his guards and servants all know better than to interrupt him without cause. What, then, is the cause?

Rochefort glances back down at Treville, then over at the door again. There’s really nothing for it. If the knocker has bothered him inappropriately, that’s what bullets to the brain are for, after all.

Spread out before him, Treville shivers.

“Under the desk,” Rochefort orders, taking pity on Treville’s obvious discomfort. Or so it will seem. In reality, it doesn’t do to leave Treville too exposed and raw. The conditioning Rochefort has subjected him to is thorough, but, by its nature, limited in scope. Pushing him outside of it, no matter how delicious it might be to watch him squirm, will undermine the whole.

But let Treville think it’s pity. He’ll respond with that dumb relief that is the most effective way to keep him under control.

Rochefort seats himself again and calls, “Enter.”

The door swings open. It’s Captain Jussac on the other side. Rochefort’s curiosity flares. It’s almost enough to drown out the lust still curling in his belly, sullen and balked of its target. Almost. Not quite, and he fixes Jussac with a stern look.

Jussac clearly knows he’s intruding. He bows low, and omits pleasantries in favor of coming right to the point. “A man came to the gate ten minutes ago and gave the right phrases for a matter of utmost importance.”

“And what did he want?”

“That you should receive this without delay.” Jussac produces a folded letter and passes it over to Rochefort. There is no formal direction on it, but in one small corner is inked a symbol Rochefort recognizes.

Rochefort frowns. It’s far too soon for a check-in from that particular spy. “Wait outside,” he instructs.

Jussac bows. “As your Lordship commands.” He leaves.

Rochefort breaks the seal. It’s several pages, he sees, and the writing is close and dense. This will take longer than he really wants it to. His mind is still half caught up in the lesson he’s planned for his slave tonight. But this spy is an important one; Rochefort can’t afford to ignore this matter until he knows its severity.

Fortunately, he doesn’t need to make a choice between business and pleasure.

“Suck,” Rochefort orders, pushing himself back from his desk slightly and turning to hold the letter up to the brace of candles.

Treville shuffles immediately into the space between Rochefort’s legs and the desk. He undoes the ties of Rochefort’s breeches clumsily, but bends to his task with at least the appearance of willingness. Treville has spent many meetings under Rochefort’s desk, when Rochefort’s affairs are taking up too much time. Even in the early days, when Rochefort had been busy night and day consolidating his power, Rochefort had been careful not to let Treville’s leash out too long. He might have started getting the wrong idea. A few hours under Rochefort’s desk, attending to all of Rochefort’s needs while his own go unmet, had proven an effective way to keep him in his place.

 _My dearest cousin,_ the letter begins. _You must be surprised to hear from me so soon! The farmers are predicting bad weather soon, so I thought it best to send this letter early, in case intercourse between our cities is prevented by the storms._

To put it mildly, this is an ominous opening.

“Hands behind your back,” Rochefort instructs Treville. “Go slow. This will take some time.”

Treville makes a soft sound of acknowledgement. Then he lowers his head and swallows Rochefort to the root.

Rochefort reads the letter carefully through, once as it’s written, and a second time for the coded message it contains. A man has been asking questions. Dangerous questions. And further digging reveals that the man in question had formerly given his allegiance to the Cardinal. Even in death, it seems, Richelieu makes life difficult for Rochefort.

Rochefort sets the letter on his desk. He leans back, steepling his fingers in thought. Treville is still working his cock, trembling helplessly as the ginger continues to heat his sensitive flesh. The Cardinal may be reaching from beyond the grave, but it’s the last, convulsive gesture of a corpse. Treville’s mouth, warm and wet and a pleasant counterpoint to the sharp-edged political considerations whirling through Rochefort’s mind, is a living reminder of the reality of Rochefort’s dominance. Rochefort will deal with this spy just as effectively as he’s dealt with Richelieu’s leavings in every other area.

“Faster now,” Rochefort orders his slave, reaching again for his pen. He writes quickly, while Treville’s head bobs up and down, spit-slick lips making debauched squelching noises. The soft noises of pain he doesn’t quite voice aloud vibrate sweetly around Rochefort’s cock. It’s still not quite enough.

“Hands.”

Treville’s capable hands join in the action. There is something about the sword-callouses on his palm that Rochefort has always particularly liked. One hand grips the base of Rochefort’s cock, while the other teases Rochefort’s balls carefully. A dangerous touch. And a testament to Rochefort’s power. Rochefort had spent a month subjecting Treville to ever more inventive forms of scrotal torture before he’d allowed his slave to use that particular touch.

And Treville’s trembling has taken on a different note. An almost desperate one. It’s too soon for desperation to come of pain; Treville’s capacity to absorb that is too large. Almost boundless, truly, and just further proof that Rochefort is right to force Treville into his true place. But if not pain, then…

Rochefort glances down. Yes, Treville is aroused, his shamefully tiny cock erect and leaking against his belly as copiously as a woman’s slick. Good. The ginger is doing its work. The burn is unpleasant, but stimulating. Which is no small part of the point. The pleasure Rochefort forces his slave to experience during his debasement is a critical key to keeping him under control. Treville has no defense against the delicious contradiction: his body is made to love what Rochefort does to it, even while his mind rebels.

The Comte reaches down for a moment, hand sliding down Treville’s chest to find one pert, erect nipple. Rochefort twists it sharply. Relishes the pained sound Treville makes, even as Rochefort lets his hand go lower. Digs his nails into the hard line of Treville’s cock, and sees his slave’s body arch closer, eager for more.

The spirit of a priest and the flesh of a slut. Not that it truly matters what Treville thinks or feels. Rochefort controls those higher functions on his behalf. But Treville must be reminded, every now and again, of what his body craves. And reminded still further of how little control he has over the indulgence of his own desires. There will be no orgasm for Treville today. Nor for a long while yet. Rochefort will keep him hard, and wanting, and desperately aware of his own subservience.

“Now,” Rochefort orders.

Rochefort’s slave tongues the head of Rochefort’s cock, twisting the pleasure up nearly to its limit. Rochefort signs his name to the paper – to the order that will bring death to half a dozen men, destroy the lives of a dozen more, and change the course of a nation. Then he throws down his pen and seizes Treville’s hair roughly, pulling him tight around his cock as he spills deeply down his slave’s throat.

“Good,” Rochefort says finally. “Good.”

For some reason, this makes Treville sob. That too feels pleasant.

Rochefort rings the bell for Jussac again. This order must go out immediately.

On his knees, Treville begins to clean Rochefort’s cock with his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last story I had in active development for this series, so I'm marking it as complete. This doesn't rule out a possible return in the future when/if the muse strikes so if you are interested I highly recommend subscribing to the series. Suggestions/ideas are welcome in the comments.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who stuck with me through this often-disturbing journey. We are all in the handbasket together.


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